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Back Point of Contact Save as PDF
Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY TOM CLANCY
  3. PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
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  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
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  27. 24
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  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
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  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
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  40. 37
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  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
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  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
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  55. 52
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  58. 55
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  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

“But you had a run-in with at least four of them now. So Paul’s instincts were right.”

Jack glanced around at the destroyed living room. “Paul’s instincts have gotten him into big trouble. Without his phone, there isn’t any way to track him, is there?”

“No. Well, one.”

“Tell me.”

“Give me a minute. Hold on.”

Jack heard the phone click. He wondered what Gavin was up to. Jack paced the living room floor, his eyes scanning for clues. He racked his brain. There was something needling him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Gavin was right. He had been dealing with some real characters the last few days. First the Aussies, then the Chinese—the guards at the first warehouse, and then the hit team at the second. Not to mention the truck that slammed into his van—who the hell were they? If he had to guess, the Chinese drove that, too. According to Lian, the Aussies were just street punks, not operators. But they might have been sent by somebody, including the Chinese.

Or were the Chinese working for somebody else?

Something about the white Australians was bugging him. Most of the Caucasians he’d bumped into in Singapore were tourists; a few were businessmen. Jack scratched his head. But . . . wasn’t there somebody else?

Yeah. A blond guy, shouting into a phone. Where was he?

Jack shut his eyes tightly, trying to play the videotape in his head. It was dark, then a flash of light. That’s when he saw the blond shouting into a phone. That’s right—a van. A Toyota van. And sitting next to him, the Turk with the bushy unibrow, staring back at Jack. The night Jack drove to the warehouse, he passed the Toyota van on the way there, parked in the opposite direction.

Wait! The license plate. What was it? Jack rewound the tape. The lightning flashed, snapping the fleeting image like a photo in his mind. He saw it clearly. White letters on a black plate. A partial. SAM 00.

The phone clicked on.

“Jack, it’s Gerry Hendley on speakerphone.”

Oh, shit.

58

Hey, Gerry.”

“Don’t ‘Hey, Gerry’ me, Jack. What in the Sam Hill have you gotten yourself into?”

Great question, Jack said to himself. “You said to come down here and kick the tires. I guess the tires have been kicking back.”

“What’s this about Paul going missing?”

“Yeah, he’s not here, and he doesn’t have his phone.”

“You think he’s in trouble?”

Jack glanced down at the rubble. He lied. “Hard to say. But it’s not like him to leave his phone and not tell me where he’s going.”

“Do you want me to dispatch Dom and Midas over to you to lend a hand?”